


for every king that died, oh they would crown another

by thecourageofstars



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2018-12-20 02:10:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11911035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecourageofstars/pseuds/thecourageofstars
Summary: "You're not going to like this," Jon said, even before saying hello when she picked up his call."Meaning?""Dany is going to summon you to King's Landing to testify against Cersei."Or: Sansa leaves Winterfell to a place she never wanted to return and gains a friend who becomes much more than a friend against her better judgement.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> #snugglesnotstruggles4sansastark2k17  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Still annoyed and this was awfully fun to write. Sort of a mish-mash of the book and TV series, mostly bc I also super bitter that TV!GOT got rid of Willas and Garlan Tyrell so they're in here a little too.  
> .  
> Title from Daniel in the Den by Bastille

There had been worse days of course, but the thought was merely a glowing coal of solace in a snow storm. Still, Sansa clutched to it as she walked slowly into her apartment building. Winterfell’s board of directors had named Jon president after Ramsay Bolton had finally been ousted, but the running of the company, identical to Bolton’s downfall, was almost solely done by Sansa. So while Jon had represented the North in King’s Landing during the election, it was Sansa who attended board meetings, who went to galas and dinners hosted by local politicians, who patiently rebuilt the Stark reputation brick by agonizing brick.

Not that any of that, or Sansa’s business degree or her years in King’s Landing mattered to Arya. Almost worse was Bran, who had become less than a stranger.

But she had been home-

(At home, she could handle the bitterness of running Winterfell but only called VP. At home, she could manage Arya and Bran, the shareholders and Petyr’s meddling. She could handle it all, so long as Winterfell was hers again.)

-and then she had been called to testify against Cersei Lannister.

It was a weakness, Sansa thought with some resignation; sometimes a door would slam close, or a child would scream, or it would smell just like the day papa had been shot and Sansa would stay very, very still waiting for the memories to fade back into the past. They were like bruises, and King’s Landing did its best to press every one of them.

Sansa nodded to Brianne as she passed and tried not to slump against the side of the elevator.

The doors were about to close, when a large hand grasped it roughly and her spine to stiffened violently. It was unintentional by the man who entered the elevator, of course, oblivious to her anxiety. Arya hadn’t been wrong about everything she had accused her sister of that night: thanks to her years as a political prisoner, Sansa had become a very good actress.

He made eye contact and smiled with a simple friendliness, then did a double take and Sansa too stiffened in recognition.

Dickon Tarly, son of Randall Tarly and head of the Tarly agricultural fortune her mind supplied dully. Recently recruited for Dany Targaryen's presidency after his father’s untimely death. But more memorable to Sansa, was Dickon’s stint as Margaery’s one-time high school boyfriend and his older brother Sam, who had been Jon’s best friend all throughout his time in the army. Sansa remembered Dickon being one of the few boys at King’s Landing Prep who had been taller than her, and thinking him handsome and shy, but so much of her experience of King’s Landing had been consumed by Joff that it was hard to say what she remembered.

What she did recall, was a sleepover with Margaery just before everything had gone wrong. They had giggled about forbidden things, wrapped in Highgarden’s expensive sheets, leaving lemon cake crumbs everywhere and Marg had alluded to the younger Tarly’s “size.” But even a memory that Joffrey or Cersei had been unable to ruin was still tainted and thinking of Margaery made her heart seize. Sometimes, Sansa would close her eyes and pretend that Marg was simply on vacation in Sunspear, sunning herself on a sparkling white beach while ordering Loras around.  

“S-Ms. Stark.”

“Mr. Tarly,” Sansa replied evenly.

The elevator rose from the lobby and Dickon leaned against the wall, hands deep in his pockets, deep in thought.

“Are you also staying here while Lannister is on trial?” he asked abruptly, turning to look at her.

Sansa nodded.

“I am.”

He seemed to gnaw his cheek, as if trying to know her mind without asking a question. He was as poor a politician as Sam it seemed.

“Something troubling you, Mr. Tarly?”

“What do you think of Targaryen?”

Sansa looked down at her hands, and spun the ring on her left index finger, the same one her mother had always worn. Her answer was so simple that it felt like a lie, and knowing what she did about Cersei, maybe it was.

“I think Cersei is not fit for office and that Daenerys is the most suitable to replace her,” she looked up at Dickon again and was surprised by the intensity of his gaze. She had not remembered his eyes being so blue.

“And I want to go home,” she added softly, looking back at her hands. When she looked back up, he was looking at her steadily and Sansa felt… odd.

The elevator dinged, but instead of breaking, the moment seemed to solidify and grow warm.

“This is my floor.”

Even with heels, she had to tilt her head to meet his blue eyes and his dark grey pea coat showcased the broadness of his shoulders, considerably broader than they had been in high school. The way Robb’s might have been, if he had lived.

“Goodnight Mr. Tarly.”

“Goodnight Ms. Stark,” he nodded, giving her a faint smile.

The elevator closed again, leaving her alone. It was an odd feeling, but a part of her wished that he might have stayed and walked with her to her apartment, if only to keep her company.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you have a plan?” Willas Tyrell asked, looking critically at Daenerys over his glasses. It was an overcast day in Dragonstone, the room dulled and ominous due to the lack of light.

  
Dany took a sip of her tea, impervious. Like Cersei, there was something about her that caused people to think of her as regal; queenly, some sort of innate quality that seemed to run through their very veins. True, the craftsmanship of Dany’s plum pantsuit was elegant and the tailoring, impeccable. Her white blonde braids crafted just messy enough to seem artful. For all the effort put into her appearance, Sansa had seen the videos of her speeches right after the sieges, her raw charisma and energy not at all hampered by her tattered and stained attire. It was so different from Cersei’s constrictive, high necked, military-inspired outfits that it almost made Sansa want to take up watercolors again. Forever ago, she had flipped through borrowed fashion magazines her mother thought were too old for her, daydreaming about which dresses she would wear when she finally was given permission to accompany her father to the capital, using watercolor to create wispy pastel gowns. Forever ago, she would sneer at the conservative Northern styles, only wanting to be dressed in King’s Landing glamorous fashions.

  
“Cersei Lannister will not get away with the murder of your grandmother, sister and youngest brother, Mr. Tyrell. She will be out of office and once I am president, she will be in prison, stewing in her bitterness where no one else can be poisoned by her.”

  
Willas stared at her, unmoved. If a type of innate royalty flowed through Dany’s veins, the blood of Highgarden’s Queen of Thorns ran just as potently through Willas’.

  
“That’s not a plan.”

  
On his right, Willas’ brother Garlan was inscrutable. On his left was Dickon Tarly, completing the representatives from the Reach, a deep frown set on his face. Next to Dany, Jon looked frustrated and on her right, Tyrion was deep in thought. Sansa sat squarely in the middle, feeling more like a mediator than a valuable political ally.  
Dany raised her chin as if to prove a point, but Willas held up a hand.

  
“I will not have any more of my family used as fodder in this disaster because you were sloppy. If I cannot be told your plan, if you have one,” he added with darkly, “then I cannot assist in resources or experience.”

  
Dany looked to say something biting, but Sansa had had enough.

  
“Daenerys,” Sansa said quietly but found her voice carried.

  
“You are not the first person to try and force Cersei out of power. There is not a whisper of doubt that she already has a contingency plan if she loses. If you want to beat her, you must think of every possible scenario.”

  
Petyr’s words fell out of her mouth as if they were her own and stomach churned.

  
“And you cannot do it on your own. Let us help you.”

  
Willas gave her a nigh imperceptible nod and Tyrion looked on with approval.

  
“Dany,” Jon pleaded, eyes solemn.

  
“Sansa knows Cersei better than anyone else here, save Tyrion.”

  
“And she’s quite right, Daenerys,” Tyrion added with a twist of his mouth.

  
Sansa met Dickon’s gaze from across the room and he seemed to give her an encouraging look. If just for a moment.

At noon, Tyrion interrupted the meeting for lunch and alcohol.

  
“Preferably something stronger than wine,” he groused hopping out of his chair. Daenerys seemed to squash a smile.

  
She rose elegantly from her chair and swished out of the room, Missandei following her like a shadow, and Jon a guard dog. The Tyrells waited for Dany to leave before Willas pushed himself up and Garlan handed him his cane. According to Jon, he’d injured it during a testosterone-fueled motorcycle race against Oberyn Martell that ended in disaster when he was sixteen.

  
Before he left the room, Willas paused and turned to Sansa, solemn.

“My condolences for your parents and brothers Ms. Stark.”

  
Sansa nodded, feeling the energy drain out of her. She nodded, somewhat helpless.

“I appreciate that.”

Dickon caught her eye and looked about to say something, but turned to follow the Tyrells from the room. Sansa stayed seated for a while longer looking out the bay windows onto the black Dragonstone beach. She was still deep in thought, about Winterfell and Arya, Jon and whatever was going on between him and Dany, when-

“Ms. Stark?”

Sansa turned her head sharply. Varys.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes.”

“My apologies,” Varys replied, the faintest trace of amusement. He was too well practiced to be caught off guard- a trait he shared with Petyr and one she had come to parts deeply resent and admire.

“But Baelish will be arriving within the hour to attend Daenerys’ nomination gala tonight. I thought you would like to know.”

Her heart was going to be stone by the time Cersei was finally imprisoned, she was sure of it. Unfeeling and impenetrable. It had to be, for her to survive. After all, if it was stone, Petyr, Cersei nor anyone else would never be able to touch it. Sansa gave him a ghost of a smile.

“Thank you, Varys.”

.

  
Sansa wore blue to Daenerys’ nomination. White and grey were the Stark colors but they looked odd against the paleness of her skin, so she opted for Tully blue. A deep blue, the color of the sky before sunrise faded away into night. The fabric was the most beautiful she had ever seen, a velvety confection embroidered with golden beads that shimmered in the light of the glass chandelier. Cut with a high neck and exposed back (just high enough to hide the scars), it was the most glamorous thing she had worn in years.

“You look nice,” Jon said with a gruff kindness. Sansa gave him an easy smile and bumped his shoulder.

“As do you. Was the grey suit Dany’s idea?”

Jon looked down, more self-conscious than usual.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m not sure how she managed it, but I guess that’s a good thing since she’s running for office.”

Sansa almost smirked.

“I doubt it took that much to persuade you to wear something other than black.”

Jon’s frowned, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. It was true that Jon looked much less like a former soldier and more like the CEO of a hipster start-up company with his sharply tailored slate grey suit and dark curls thrown into a bun.

Together, they watched in companionable silence as Dany swept across the ballroom floor, resplendent in crimson, whirling around the room like a charming inferno. She had just accepted her nomination for president and given a speech about the importance of honor and morality.

“This country’s politics have become a wheel, crushing beneath it all those it is meant to protect. Rest assured I am not going to stop the wheel,” she had thundered, “I am going to _break the wheel_.”

Sansa hoped Cersei had been watching.

“You should ask her to dance.”

“Oh, she’s already informed me of that we are,” Jon laughed lightly. Daenerys caught Jon’s eye from across the room and smiled at him. She appeared to be trying to be seductive, but there was a girlish pleasure to it, that ruined the effect. Sansa couldn’t decide if she was charmed or deeply jealous. Jon winked, the smooth bastard, and Sansa rolled her eyes, biting back a laugh.

“What?”

“Do you remember the time you had a massive crush on Evelyn Moor, my tutor’s older sister?”

“I don’t recall,” Jon told her, face completely straight.

“Only because you’ve blocked it from your memory.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Let me refresh your memory-”

“-Please, gods, no-”

“- you were so in love with her that you ran into a pole because you were too busy watching her and broke your arm.”

“Oh, is that how I got that scar?” Jon said turning to her in apparent surprise, but his ears were bright red.

Sansa shook her head, smiling widely now.

“You should ask Dany to dance anyways though. Even if you think it’s implied.”

He nodded, solemn again.

“Do you promise to save a dance for me, though?” Jon asked, nudging her shoulder.

Sansa felt her chest seize with a mess of affection and agony. No one had laughed louder or more cruelly than her when Jon had broken his arm. To think she had once openly declared him her least favorite sibling. That she would one day feel closer to Jon than she had even been to Bran would have been unimaginable to fourteen-year-old Sansa. After this was over, she would just ask Jon about her being appointed Stark CEO instead of him. He had brought obliviousness to an art form, he probably didn’t have a clue about her dissatisfaction. The realization swept through her, rinsing away the resentment that had been festering for weeks. She gave him a small smile and nodded, her throat too thick to speak. Jon lightly squeezed her arm before crossing the room to where Dany stood holding court with some of the representatives from Dorne and the Reach.

Sansa moved away from where she had been standing, carefully observing the room. Daenerys and Arianne Martell were in the thick of a conversation, one that was being watched with wariness by the Tyrells. Tyrion too kept an eye on the Martells, as he conversed with Jon, the only person who seemed willing to talk to the only Lannister even if everyone knew that he would be appointed as Dany’s vice president. Meanwhile, her fellow Northerners huddled together like penguins, as if to keep out the daringly dressed Dornish as opposed to the cold.

“I would be wary of the Martells if you were you,” Petyr told her conspiratorially as he came to stand beside her, wine glass in hand.

“As if I wasn’t already,” Sansa replied stiffly.

“Good girl.”

“The Tyrells can also be trouble if less obvious.”

Sansa hummed, noncommittal. If her meeting with the Tyrells and Dany had proved anything, it was that the Reach was tired. Disgusted by the Lannisters, but exhausted in resources and will after the fallout of failing to put Renly Baratheon in King’s Landing. Yes, the Tyrells were tired. But: Sansa remembered how, when they were roommates, Margaery would brag to anyone who would listen, about the gorgeous purebred horse Willas had personally trained and gifted to her on her sixteenth birthday. Remembered how she would tell her stories about Loras and Garlan wrestling over the last piece of apple pie at Thanksgiving, the two of them falling over in peels of laughter. Willas leaned more heavily on his cane than ever before, yet came early to every meeting Daenerys had called, Garlan a faithful and stalwart figure behind him. It seemed clear to Sansa that Cersei had orchestrated her own poetic downfall.

“Does Daenerys have a plan to oust Cersei yet?”

“You tell me.”

Petyr tsked, and Sansa felt a familiar swell of unease.

“When you think there is no way out, know that you can come to me. You know I’ve come through for you before,” he said glancing over at Jon who was now talking warmly with Sam, “When no one else would.”

“I appreciate that Petyr,” Sansa said smoothly.

There was something terrifying and satisfying knowing that two years previous, the words would have been gritted and strangled. Petyr looked at her appreciatively and glided away, likely to keep to the corners of the party to eavesdrop.

Sansa made a point to not to keep an eye on him the night went on, focusing instead of encouraging her Northern congregation to make small talk with other guests if only to keep the Dornish from feeling snubbed. It was a thankless job, but it kept her busy. Old memories of when Sansa’s position in King’s Landing depended on her ability to make small talk began to leak into the back of her mind, causing her to retreat for a moment, pulling her back to the edge of the ballroom. For a moment, she felt a pang of grief for Margaery.

“Are you alright?” Dickon asked, coming to stand beside her.

“Yes, thank you. Old memories.”

He nodded seriously as if he understood.

“My father hated these things. And I feel just as awkward at them now as I did when I was younger.”

Sansa gnawed at her lip, debating her answer.

“I loved them. I was very close to Margaery and we used to have so much fun at these sorts of things.”

They used to make everything into a glamorous production; Sansa would do their hair, Margaery their make-up. Cersei and Joffrey were hellish, but pretending, acting, wasn’t so hard with her friend by her side. It had been something to discover that she was good at it: the art of conversation, the swanning around, the masks. All things Arya would have scorned and rejected.

“I remembered you two from school,” he said with a sort of forced casualty. If Sansa’s eyes didn’t deceive her, he was blushing too.

“She would have loved this. My older brother, Rob, would have loved it too,” she added and felt the mortifying urge to cry.

For a moment, they just watched Jon led Daenerys to the floor and begin to dance.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ve grown tired of hearing that, but I am.”

“My condolences for your father as well.”

Something strange crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He looked away, embarrassed, then raised a hand as if to rub the back of his neck before stopping himself and looking her speculatively.

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, w-would you like to dance?”

A surprising sense of pleasure washed over Sansa at the thought.

“Yes,” she told him, her tone warmer than maybe it should have been, “So long as you promise to forgive me if I step on your toes. I’m a little out of practice.”

“Only if you forgive me if I step on yours,” he countered offering her his hand. She smiled.

.

 

The next morning, Jon texted her, asking if she would like to meet Daenerys for brunch. Sansa had walked into Dragonstone’s main dining room to find not just Dany, but Arianne Martell lounging on one of the couches.

“I saw that you danced twice with Dickon Tarly last night,” Arianne said, taking a sip of her mimosa.

Sansa shrugged.

“Petyr Baelish was making his way over and I didn’t want to deal with him.”

Arianne laughed, a bright sound if a little mocking.

“Fair enough I suppose.”

“More than fair,” Dany corrected neatly. “Take a seat anywhere you’d like. A mimosa, Sansa?”

“Please,” Sansa said, accepting a glass.

That Dickon had been a wonderful dance partner, if a little clumsy, Arianne didn’t need to know. Didn’t need to know that Sansa had never been more excited to need an excuse not to deal with Petyr, or that she found herself fond of him, simply because he was plain-spoken and kind. If there was guile in his words, she could not detect it. And she certainly didn’t need to know that had Sansa spent far too long staring at the ceiling above her bed, sleepless, feeling girlish delight and a horrid sense of unease churn her stomach, remembering the last time she had a crush on a boy.

**Author's Note:**

> tbc, but not sure when bc college. :/  
> .  
> .  
> Visit me on Tumblr at to-kratisto ! Happy to chat and/or take prompts.


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